Running Backwards
by Mornen
Summary: A series of vignettes, flash fiction, and other short stories focusing on characters from 'The Silmarillion' and 'The Lord of the Rings.' Lots of character explorations and other explorations into thoughts and minds. Chapters categorized by character for convenience. Latest Chapter: Fade: Denethor and Boromir
1. Strangling: Galadriel and Celeborn

_Strangling: __Galadriel and Celeborn in Doriath_

* * *

He says, 'fall,' and she falls forward. He catches her in his arms. 'It's all right,' he says. 'It's all right. It's called trust.'

In the mornings she sits by the window watching the sun come up. She writes her memories on scraps of paper that she burns by evening time.

'Don't ask me to understand you,' she tells him one day. He doesn't know what she means.

At night she watches the stars. She counts them off in her head, one by one. She closes her eyes and sees them all there – glinting one, two, one, two back at her. She tells him how many she's counted.

'I'm thinking of cutting my hair,' she says. They're sitting beneath the trees. He's reading, hair falling silver around his shoulders. She holds a lock of her hair up to the sun. She pulls her hair tight back behind her ears. 'Do you like it?'

'Don't cut it,' he says.

'I should have,' she says. 'I should have long ago.'

She braids her hair with flowers and walks in the twilight among the birches. She does not cut it, and she does not fall.


	2. Drowning: Maglor and Caranthir

_Drowning: Maglor and Caranthir on the Capture of Maedhros_

* * *

Maglor stands with his back straight. The coast lies dark before him. Ice crusts along the edge of the shore, glinting white in the starlight.

Caranthir stands in the space behind him. 'Do you think we'll ever see Maedhros again?'

'No.'

Maglor likes the way the water ripples in the night. It becomes black and then white as it freezes. He could watch the whole lake freeze. He could walk across it. He could break through the ice and go crashing down, swallowed whole by cold and water.

Caranthir scuffs in the space behind him. 'Do you think we'll ever regain the Silmarils?'

'No.'

The water would plunge into his mouth, tear it open. The water would press against his eyes, punch them in. The water would flood into his lungs, and he would breathe cold in as it froze him.

Caranthir laughs in the space behind him. 'We are then cursed.'

'Yes.'

His body would freeze. His blood turn to crystals. Water would scrape the flesh from his bones and leave his skeleton white, white beneath the surface of the water glinting upwards white towards the stars like a star, like a star, like a star.

The water laps against the shore. The ice cracks and forms again.

Caranthir walks away, leaving empty the space behind him.

Maglor says, 'I could not die in water.'


	3. Shrieking: Elrond and Gandalf

_Shrieking: Elrond and Gandalf on the Choice of Elros _

* * *

The wind lifts the tree branches in the night. They shake upwards and then fall down again. Clouds hang like mist over the stars, blending them together.

'Sometimes,' Elrond whispers to Gandalf, 'I would have dreams about opening his casket. I had dreams about looking in the mirror and seeing his dead face.'

A fire crackles on the hearth. Wood pops and red sparks splutter.

Gandalf sits smoking. 'Do you hate him for it?' he says.

'I don't know.' Elrond stirs the fire. The wood falls to pieces beneath his poker. 'I don't think so.'

Gandalf nods. 'When did you know you would choose to be counted among the Eldar?'

'Always,' Elrond says. 'I was too afraid to die.'

The wind picks up, howling outside the building. Clouds gather and the stars are gone.


	4. Stupor: Fingolfin and Maedhros

_Stupor: Fingolfin and Maedhros regarding Fëanor_

* * *

Ñolofinwë dreams in nightmares. They come crashing down around him, sudden bursts of flaming colour. He sees Turukáno with a sword in his hand; he cuts off Tyelkormo's head. Maitimo strangles Findekáno with his golden braids. Irissë runs, but Makalaurë catches her and slits her throat. Blood washes over her white clothes. Red touches silver.

'What are you thinking about?' Anairë asks him.

'It's nothing,' he answers. He kisses her cheek. It's warm.

Fëanáro stands above him. They regard each other. And then they both die. Fire pours from the sky like a waterfall and cascades in sheets over the field of ice where they stand. Their bodies go up in flames. Then there is nothing but grey and silence.

The room is flooded with silver light. Anairë sits, watching him. She rests her head on her knees.

'It's my brother,' he says. He gets up. 'I'm going to talk to him.'

Ñolofinwë walks out into the garden. The shadows are gentle. Music is playing. He sees Maitimo sitting by a fountain; his red hair tickles the top of the water. Ñolofinwë sits down beside him. 'How are you?'

Maitimo smiles a little. 'I'm fine.'

Maitimo has grey eyes like his father. He has his nose and his chin. He has the same high, sharp cheekbones. Maitimo has softer lips; they quiver.

Maitimo says, 'Do you really want to know?'

'Yes.'

Maitimo says, 'I,' but then he shakes his head, letting his hair fall over his face. 'That's silly,' he says. 'So, so, so silly. I'm sorry.' He stands and turns. He touches Ñolofinwë's cheek. 'Good night, Uncle,' he says.

His hands are strong like Fëanáro's, but softer. Ñolofinwë takes his hand, and suddenly he is holding Fëanáro's, and Fëanáro is standing above him, tall and scornful, always there and always unreachable. And he is telling Fëanáro that he loves him and that they should get along. They should just get along.

And Fëanáro is laughing. Fëanáro is clasping Ñolofinwë's face between his hands. His voice is mocking. His eyes are sad. 'No,' he says. 'No.' His fingers press against his cheeks. His eyes harden. 'Little brother,' he says, 'you live in dreams.'


	5. Marriage: Turgon and Finrod on Elenwë

_Marriage: Turgon and Finrod on Elenwë_

* * *

Turgon placed both hands on Finrod's bare shoulders; his wet skin was peeling.

Finrod stared up at him. 'What is it that you wanted to tell me?' he asked. 'What is it that could not wait?'

'I am in love,' Turgon said. 'I have fallen in love.'

Finrod lifted a towel and wrapped it around himself. Turgon tousled his hair.

'I am glad,' said Finrod.

Smiling, Turgon embraced him. 'I shall be in love forever and ever.'

The air around them was sweet. Finrod looked at their reflections in the steamed mirror. Their faces were foggy; their eyes reflected dim.


	6. Molehills: On Gil-galad

_Molehills: On Gil-galad_

* * *

He equates mountains with molehills because you could fall from either. Because either could kill you. Because they both are hills.

He draws questions from answers and make marks on paper that sort of mean what he's thinking. But not really. He signs them as king.

He perfects skipping stones and blueberry pancakes and builds armies and strategies. He taps on lines on paper that measure miles.

He reads history books to get to know his family. By the light of a candle he recites their names and causes of death.

Finally he concludes that all the causes are the same; they all go back to one thing.

'So,' he says. 'That's the way it will be.'

He writes letters and gains allies step by step. He keeps his friends at arm's length and tells them sorry until they stop needing him.

He doesn't marry.

In the end he stands brave: a shining star in the shadows. He holds his helm high as he stands by the mountain.

He equates mountains with molehills.


	7. Casualties: A Drabble about Fëanor

_Casualties: A Drabble about Fëanor_

* * *

Fëanor sat with his hand wrapped in bandages. He had burnt it that morning, but already the burn was fading.

'Did you really grab a hot diamond?' Nerdanel had asked as she examined the burn. 'Why are you trying to destroy yourself?'

Fëanor had grabbed a hot diamond because he wanted to know how hot it was – because he wanted to know if it would burn. He reached into the embers and pulled it out still glowing. He stared it for a moment before he realized it had burnt his palm off. He put it down carefully and then screamed.


	8. Family: On Saruman

_Family: On Saruman_

* * *

Saruman holds his hands above his head. He touches his fingers together. He breathes.

In the trees birds are singing. The sun is shining bright on the green grass. A wind sweeps in from the field bringing warm air, the scent of life.

Saruman tilts his hands to one side and then the other. His knuckles crack. His back creaks as he stretches. When did he become an old man?

On the desk a pile of book stands. He fell asleep reading again last night. He picks up another book and turns the pages. His hands are yellowed like the pages. But the words on them are as sharp as the thoughts in his mind.

He spent his life reading. He lost his black hair to white pages. He lost the sparkle in his eye to dim candles and the swish, swish, swish of pages being turned.

'Good morning,' he says and receives no answer.

So he sits alone in silence as the wind sweeps in.


	9. Victory: Frodo and the Ring

_Victory: Frodo and the Ring_

* * *

Frodo lies awake at night listening to the drip drip drip of the rain on the window. In the room next door he hears Sam whispering to Rosie. Their sheets rustle. She laughs.

He keeps three candles lit by the bedside because he can't bear to be in darkness. But he's afraid even of their fire. He's afraid of the glowing red of his closed eyelids.

In the night when he's drowsy he reaches for It, but It isn't there. Over and over again he asks himself why he wishes It were still dragging him down, slicing his head from his shoulders. He can only answer that he loves It.

Elanor whimpers in her cradle.

He tries to imagine a life without It – a life which It never touched. He shuts his eyes tight, but all he sees is red that melts into black and the scattered, blinking lights of a shattered mind.

_'You could have the world.' _

Sam rocks in the bed with Rosie.

He claimed It. He could have had It. He hears Sauron crying on the edges of his mind.

_'This is all there is in the end.' _

Rosie squeaks.

He set out to save the world for her – to save the world for everyone like her. Rosie laughs again. Every pretty, happy person who feels so comfortable being whole – he wanted to save the world for those people who belonged in it.

He wonders if that is why he failed.

_'Claim It. Claim It now, and you can have everything you've ever wanted.' _

He stood in the mountain with fire below him and held It close. For the first time in what felt like ages memories came back to him. He thought of the Shire and the warm spring days when families mingled on the grass laughing and chatting and being respectable. A boy handed a girl a flower, and she took it and kissed his cheek. He went red in the face. His older brother laughed and lifted his baby. Children ran by and tumbled down the hill. Two sisters sat side by side in white dresses cramming their mouths with strawberries.

And he walked down the path with his hands in his pockets saying good-morning to everyone and nothing else.


	10. Betrayal: Mablung and Beleg

_Betrayal: Mablung and Beleg_

* * *

Mablung dipped his toes into the water. It was clear and clean and felt like a frosty morning against his skin.

'It's too early in the year for swimming,' Beleg said from a little ways back in the forest. He stood watching Mablung with his arms crossed. A smile was twitching on his face.

'I'm always the first in the spring,' Mablung called back to him. 'Until you babies get up the nerve to face a little cold water.'

'Boasting about your stupidity will not get me to join it,' Beleg said and laughed.

'And if you had to cross a river in the winter?' Mablung said. 'What would you then?'

'I would cross it,' said Beleg. 'And become freezing cold, but only if I had to. I do not torture myself for amusement.'

Mablung stripped off his shirt and trousers. 'You do not understand the fun in life,' he said.

'No,' said Beleg. 'I understand the fun in life, and it does not come from needlessly harming oneself.'

'Yes, I agree.' Mablung walked back to him. 'It comes from needlessly harming your friends.' And so saying he snatched Beleg from the green moss and flung him into the river.

Beleg came up spluttering. 'Oh, you'll pay.'


	11. Secrets: On the Birth of Lúthien

_Secrets: On the Birth of Lúthien_

* * *

Melian weaves thoughts into a girdle. She wraps shrouds and clouds and secrets around trees. And around minds. She keeps every secret.

On dew covered moss she steps, her feet light. The scent of earth reaches up to her; it is fragrant and powerfully pungent. She lives a century in each breath.

'Breathe,' she tells Thingol, pressing his hands to her lips. 'Breathe. You're fine.'

He looks at her, mind swimming, and she brushes the hair off his face where sweat binds it.

'I love you,' he says.

Melian carries his love into the shadows. She stands beneath the reaching trees and opens her eyes to starlight.

Under the universe she carries boldly her greatest secret. It lies within her, but it is without her. She never thought it possible.

Thoughts blossom in her mind; she feels them move in her body. She strokes her breasts and her belly. They are swelling round like the moon.


	12. Sailing: On Círdan

_Sailing: On Círdan_

* * *

Círdan draws a plane across the board. A strip of wood curls in a sheet beneath the blade and falls down. Wood dust forms at his feet, clings to his clothes. He brushes it off like he brushes the years off. Memories spiral like shavings.

He builds.

He builds and nations spring up and collapse around him. Countries rise and fall as steadily as the sea. He etches their names and their dates in his memories. In his mind he carves the faces of a million different people. He loves some.

He watches his boats glide away from the shore.


	13. Rock-a-bye, Baby: The Death of Caranthir

_Rock-a-bye, Baby: The Death of Caranthir_

* * *

Fear smells like death. Death smells like blood. Blood smells like metal. And metal smells like Father – bright, beautiful Father with his steel eyes and cutting tongue and quicksilver rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat fingers on my skin and in my brain and in my eyes – pressed up, holding fast, jump-before-it's-too-late Father smelling like fire and ashes and fire and soot and fire and metal and home.

I thought fear would smell different, like cold sweat or meat that's sat too long. But fear smells alive. I take a breath and think of earth and green moss and growing things. Nothing's stagnant. The blood churns through my body – da-dum-da-dum-da-dum. It squirts rhythmically – ch-ch-ch. An artery is severed. I'm spilling life everywhere. I take another breath and taste flowers.

Flowers have a funny taste. I'd expect them to be sweet, but they're deeper than that. They run sweet but also bitter. They taste like choking in scent. They flood from your mouth back up to your nose, enveloping your head, and then they're sour and gone. There are flowers everywhere: flowers in the trees above me, flowers between my fingers, clouding up the air with their fragrance. I bleed out on them, and then they smell like death.

I don't think I want to die. It's hard to tell when the world keeps going grey. Grey seems kind. Grey seems gentle. Grey flashes at me like Father's eyes, and I swear again to reclaim Them. All shall perish for Them. I cough up blood.

Something inside my body has ruptured. My ribs have collapsed inward on my left lung. Death rocks my heart like a baby it might drop.

Father rocked me in his arms when I was little. He would brush my hair off my face, say, 'I love you.' He would swing me back and forth – da-du-da-du. His swing felt like his heartbeat. He'd say, 'You're beautiful.' He'd bend to kiss me, skin hot, and I loved his fire. Against his chest he would press me, soft shirt and strong arms. Father smelt like metal.


	14. Brothers: On Melkor and Manwë

_Brothers: On Melkor and Manwë_

* * *

'I was supposed to love you.'

Manwë turns his face away. Melkor stands with his hands clasped together.

'I know.'

The world was blue, so Manwë chose blue for his eyes. He wanted to match the sky and the ocean. He was part of them, and they were a part of him.

'And all I felt was anger. Because he loved you.' Melkor lets his hands fall to his sides.

'Yes.'

'You were the oldest. You knew him better than us all.'

Manwë smiles gently. There is love in his smile, but no understanding. 'It is not wrong to want love.'

Melkor bows his head. 'No.'

Manwë stands and turns his sceptre. At the end of it there is bound a sapphire that matches his eyes. It glints back at Melkor, beautiful and utterly perfect.

'I loved you,' Manwë says. 'Did you know that?'

'Yes. It hurt.'

Manwë smiles again, as if his skin was stretched out and slit open over his teeth. 'I am truly sorry.'

'As am I,' Melkor says. 'Forgive me.'

Manwë places a hand on his brother's shoulder. The gentle touch creeps under Melkor's skin. Manwë drops his hand, but Melkor can still feel it.

'I will.'


	15. Ice: On Fingon

_Ice: On Fingon _

* * *

Fingon has cold hands. He rubs them together when he speaks to warm them. He stands with his back to the fire with his palms out. He claps them together and says, 'you're an idiot,' laughs, and then rubs them again.

High King Fingon keeps his hands pressed together. He holds them by his sides when he speaks or raises them up in grand gesture. He holds a fist up, bold and strong. His hands are steady when he says, 'we shall win.'

I don't know if they're cold.


	16. Morning: Boromir and Faramir

_Morning: Boromir and Faramir _

* * *

Faramir sits rocking. His body shudders as he sobs. He knocks his fists against the white stone floor.

Boromir lies on his bed. He feels too weak to get up. His lips are glued together.

Faramir's sobs are coming out as hisses. His teeth are gritted, and he leans forward against his knees.

Dawn creeps through the window in long, white stretches. She touches the bed and the stone walls. She creeps up over Faramir's legs and shimmies across half his face. He turns away, shields his reddened eyes.

Faramir cried through the night. Boromir had hoped he would fall asleep, but he did not. He stayed awake and screamed if anyone touched him.

Boromir closes his eyes, but that changes nothing. He still sees his mother's face – pits beneath her eyes, blue lips.

He last saw his father pacing beneath the stars. Saying, 'I killed her. I killed her.' Turning away from the advisor who said, 'your sons are well, my lord. You need not worry for them. Children do not understand death.'

Faramir topples sideways, too tired to cry any longer. He lies on the floor, one hand over his head, staring. Boromir forces himself to move. He rolls off the bed to lie beside his brother. He takes his little hand.

Faramir inches towards him. He presses his forehead against his shoulder. His face is bathed in sunlight.

Boromir kisses his forehead. Their mother is dead, and he does not know where their father is. The birds are singing.


	17. Running Backwards: Elrond-Elros

_Running Backwards: Elrond-Elros_

* * *

Elros stood up to his knees in the ocean. The waves washed in and out around his legs, back and forth and back and forth again. He could see his feet through the lace of the water; they dug into the sand. He could make out bits of rock glinting in the water; a blue pebble washed near his toe, then a red one. Most were grey. Sometimes he wondered if a Silmaril would come tumbling through the waves to him. He wondered what he would do with it, if one did. He wondered many things.

He wondered if he could find a ship. If he got into a ship right then and pushed it out to sea, would he be able to find his parents? Could he give back the gift he had chosen – the gift that made his heart run slower and his hands shake? And did he want to find them? He could remember his mother's soft voice saying, 'hush,' above his cradle. He had no memory of his father. When he tried to think of him, he thought of starlight spinning above his head and knitting itself into the face of a laughing man. He always wound up tearing that face to pieces, and the starlight would become wholesome again. He had told only Elrond that. Elrond had nodded and said, 'they did what they thought best.' Elrond had said, 'we aren't more important than the world.'

Elros hated the world. He told Elrond that too. He was far too young then, and far too careless. He hated everything and everyone because they all had hurt him. Every memory he had was tainted by sorrow. He had loved monsters, and their kindness burnt into his soul. Elrond had nodded and taken his hand. He had said, 'I suppose they did what they thought best.'

Elros hated him for that. He hated his measured, gentle words and quiet melancholy. He wanted to tear the earth to pieces until nothing was whole so that he would not feel loathsome, so that he would not feel unwanted and broken and out of place. He threw Elrond onto the bed when he said that. He grabbed him tight and pinned him down so that he couldn't run away to his books and slow solaces.

'Do you really believe that?' he hissed. 'Do you actually expect me to take that for an answer?'

Elrond looked up out the window, so he grabbed him by his hair and forced him to look at him. 'Answer me true,' he said. 'Answer me true, my brother, who was torn to shreds beside me and cried bitter tears to the stars.'

Elrond looked into his eyes, and for a moment Elros thought he saw time running backwards and time running forwards to the very beginnings and very ends of the world mirrored in a vortex in his brother's grey eyes.

'I do not,' Elrond said.

But that was years ago, when he still had black hair and smooth, strong hands. When he had no children, and no wife. When he had no kingdom, and just the promise of mortality, and the gift of death to hold onto.

When Elrond had said, 'please, do not do this to me.'

And he had answered, 'I do what I think best.'


	18. Remembrance: The Birth of Nienor

_Remembrance: The Birth of Nienor _

* * *

Morwen births her daughter in silence in the deep lows of the quaking night. She bites a rag through the pain so that the boards of the house will lie still and not ring with her anguish. The fire lies quiet in the hearth, just red embers – no wild flames sputtering. She pushes the child from her body into a world of sorrow lit only by those embers and the timid morning. Her body is damp from sweat, cold against the air. Blood streaks down her legs onto the hay she squatted over. She will burn it with the sunrise.


	19. Pathless: On Eärendil

_Pathless: On Eärendil_

* * *

Eärendil journeys far into the heavens on a ship that was made to sail the sea. On his head he wears a Silmaril not made by him not made for him. He is a descendent of Fingolfin – Fingolfin the usurper. Sometimes he hears Fëanor laugh in his mind, sometimes he hears him weep. But he hears many voices in his head as he glides through silent space.

The stars glitter as he sails past the moon. The round moon, the full moon, speckled with canyons, guided by Tilion, white and cold and so close he could touch it. He remembers being a child and holding the moon between his fingers. It was so far then, in those far away days.

Arda is blue flooded with white, spherical. He has been told that it once lay flat, flat in the heavens with stars beneath it and stars above it, flat like a map or a page from a book. But Eru lifted it and reshaped it so that it was round, round like an eye, round like a ball that a child might throw, might catch.

He sails to a planet dusty red with mountains and valleys and wind. He finds it empty; he finds it barren. He's never met any life out there. He doesn't know if that's why he goes sailing – if he's looking for someone. He's always felt like he's looking for someone. So he sails on again.

He sails upwards and downwards against a sea of black until he feels like he's sailing in circles, sailing in circles, onward, forever, if onward means back.


	20. Colour: Celegorm, Finrod, and Curufin

_Colour: Celegorm, Finrod, and Curufin in Nargothrond_

* * *

'Have you ever watched a candle? Just stared? Do you know how many colours it becomes?' Finrod's face is blocked by the flame. I can only see one eye. It is half-closed, hazy. He is thinking too hard again.

'How many colours?'

He sighs, and the flame flutters. 'I've lost count.'

I walk around the table to touch his shoulder. His hair is falling over his face. He looks up at me through it.

'I'm tired,' he says.

I sit down beside him. 'Then go to bed.'

He looks back at the candle, folds his hands beneath his chin. 'Have you ever wondered why we need light?'

'Because we need it,' I say. It's simple: it's necessary. But Finrod was never content with simple; he wanted everything to be thought through a thousand times. In some ways he reminds me of my mother.

'But why?' He reaches out and runs his finger through the flame, quick. It flutters and bends to try to escape his touch.

'To see. To grow things. To live, really.'

His shirt is falling off one shoulder. He hasn't noticed, or he doesn't care.

'I see,' he says. He smiles a little, cuts his finger through the flame again.

'Are you drunk?' I ask him.

'No. Just tired.' He looks at me. 'They're rather the same thing.'

'I suppose,' I say as Curufin walks into the room.

He's dressed in a white nightshirt, hair a flyaway mess around his head. For a moment, I think he's father. I still do that, even now. But then I see his skinny legs and pinched nose, the too small wrists he hides beneath sleeves that reach halfway to his fingers. He holds those fingers in fists now, stretches them out as he talks.

'Are you still up?' he says. 'What on earth are you doing at this hour?'

Finrod flicks at the candle. 'Contemplating fire.'


	21. Cotton Candy: On Irmo

_Cotton Candy: On Irmo _

* * *

Irmo keeps dreams in a jar by the window. They glow softly white or silver or blue, shimmer like a galaxy trapped in glass. He thinks of mortal children collecting fireflies in jam jars, clapping on metal lids clink, clink.

Irmo still remembers the future. He saw it all in a stream before the birth of the world, and he relished those images. He kept them close, and they became parts of his dreams, so that sometimes he would pass them onto dreamers, and the thundering railroads and rockets blasting into space would fall into a world of horses and shoes cracked from walking.

Irmo lifts the jar from the windowsill. The dreams swirl and puddle. Thoughts spill into his head of unbroken families and lives unmarred, a world without sun or moon.

These are the dreams that he dares not touch. The ones that are either too blissful or too beautiful to linger on, for everything after them tastes of sorrow. He knows this, for he touched them all when he caught them and caged them and tried to forget.

Irmo places the dreams back by the window. They fold over each other like cotton candy at a county fair lit by a Ferris wheel that would never have been lit in the world that the dreams hold.

* * *

A/N: This is, quite frankly, the weirdest thing I believe I have ever written. I do not know where it comes from or why it exists.


	22. Patchwork: Glorfindel

_Patchwork: Glorfindel _

* * *

Sometimes you still have nightmares. Of falling. Of breaking. Of fire.

Of golden hair twisting over you face and bursting into flame.

The smell of burning hair is acidic. It's sharp. It leaves a taste in the back of your throat you can't quite get rid of, no matter how many times you swallow.

Sometimes you miss the last step when you walk down the stairs in the dark. You stumble forward, your stomach lurches, and you clutch at the banister. The floor beneath you is gone, and you're falling. Your insides will catch up with you later. Your mind will never truly comprehend.

You fall off the cliff, and you break. It's easy to break. Your body wasn't made to hold together. It's physics. It's simple.

It's laughably simple.

But this body is different. It isn't a real body. It was stitched together from your memories. Did you remember your nose a bit longer? Did you remember your teeth a bit smaller? Were your eyes a bit darker? Did they have a fleck you've forgotten?

Yours is a patchwork face.

It rests on a patchwork body. Now there are things about you that are slightly different than before, but you can't say why.

You're a bit taller then when you sailed through the air, back arched, hands helpless above your head, hair splayed around your face like a lightning storm. For a moment, you were at peace. The sky was high above you, and the ground was far below. But then your golden hair twisted over your face.

Sometimes you still have nightmares.


	23. Flight: Fëanor and Finarfin

_Flight: Fëanor and Finarfin_

* * *

Finarfin walks upon the side of the bridge, arms outstretched like a bird's wings. He walks slowly, wavering from side to side. His golden hair swishes against his face, glowing in the light.

Fëanor watches him.

He could fall, tumble downward into the water or fall sideways onto the bridge. He could be a flash of golden hair and a white tunic, and then wail like a little bird. The wind is strong.

Fëanor looks down at his alphabet. He crafts a sound in the back of his throat and tries to find a symbol to match it. He scribbles down letters and crosses them out.

Finarfin stops at the end of the bridge; his shadow falls over Fëanor's writing.

'What are you doing?' he says.

'I'm making an alphabet.' Fëanor closes his book.

Finarfin frowns and folds his arms. 'We already have an alphabet.'

'I want a better one.'

'Why?'

Fëanor looks up at his little brother. The wind lashes his hair over his face, making black stripes cut across the world.

'Because the one we have is not good enough.'

Finarfin jumps off the bridge and lands lightly on the ground next to him. He reaches for Fëanor's book.

'Let me see.'

'Why?'

'I want to see.'

Fëanor opens his book and shows him his notes. 'Structure,' he says, and taps his finger against the smudged ink. 'Simplicity.'

Finarfin stares at the pages for a long time in silence. 'Hmm,' he says, finally.

Fëanor shuts the book on his fingers. 'I'm not done with it yet.'

'No,' Finarfin says. He stares at Fëanor. His eyes are blue, framed by golden lashes. They are wet and open like the sea. 'I'm going to find my brother.'

Fëanor holds his alphabet tight on his knees as he watches his brother leave.

* * *

_A/N: Hello! Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed or favourited or followed this story. If I haven't replied to your review or pm, it isn't because I don't love you, I've just been busy with the start of a new semester, and shall try to get to that soon. So thank you again! It makes me feel very encouraged. Also, if anyone has any good story recommendations I'd love to hear them. Have a lovely weekend everyone! _


	24. Oxygen: On Sauron

_Oxygen: On Sauron_

* * *

Sauron pinches his nose shut, holds his hand over his mouth. He holds his airways closed until he starts to panic in his head. His eyes feel huge; he feels air tapping against them. His mouth tries to open; his jaw is tight. He tries to inhale through his nose, and the muscles in his throat constrict. A headache starts. He's getting dizzy.

He drops his hand and gasps the air in.

'So,' he says. 'That's what mortals fear.'

He sits in the body he wrapped around his spirit and smiles.

'Death,' he says and goes outside to drown himself.

Face-down in the pool he floats. It's the same thing, but this time his eyes sting from the water. They do not feel as large, and when he tries to take a breath of air water rushes in. He comes up choking.

A few minutes later the choking has stopped. His body feels weak, his jaw aches, and his lungs are burning.

'Oh,' he says and laughs. 'It's not a nice gift, is it?'

He sits by the side of the pool and tries to blow the water from his nose. He rubs his nose, and it still hurts. He swallows, and another cough comes.

'Not nice at all.'

Years later he walks on the Isle of Númenor. 'I know why you fear it,' he tells the king.


	25. Division: Amrod and Amras

_Division: Amrod and Amras_

* * *

His brother lies in ashes at the bottom of the sea. Waves will carry him. Currents divide him.

He wonders if he's burnt completely, or if his bones are still there. Did his flesh melt? He's never seen a body burn. He imagines his skin melting like the wax on a candle, dripping down off his skull.

His eyes. He can't imagine his eyes. They are still alive, laughing, burning bright. Then he sees them on fire. He watches them melt. Vomit rises in his mouth, and he chokes it down.

Their father is standing, assembling, bidding them march on without supplies. Without his brother.

He wonders if he woke to flames around him. If he tried to get out. Or if he thought it was his father, coming to tuck him into bed. _Fëanáro._ Did he scream? Did he cry? Or did he die in his sleep, suffocated on smoke, dreaming of his mother and the cool touch of stone?

Would he turn back and forget his oath?

An oath. He swore an oath. A vow he cannot reverse. A promise he does not want to hold.

He swore it with his brothers because the torches were bright, and his father's words were made of hope. Hope for vengeance. Hope for pain. Hope for _something_.

Now it's gone. It's like his brother, washed away to the bottom of the sea.

* * *

_A/N: Yes, this is going with the version where Fëanor burns the ships, killing his youngest child. _

_Also (as a warning) if I disappear for a couple days it's because a massive blizzard is coming this way, and our power might go out. I hope this does not happen, but it might._


	26. June: Aredhel and Maeglin

_June: Aredhel and Maeglin_

* * *

Maeglin tasted sun-soaked. His skin was warm and smelt fresh like dew and new earth. Aredhel pulled him over in her arms, laid him on top of her. Maeglin laughed. His laugh was soft, like the light coming down through the branches. Aredhel seldom found a place in the forest where the sun could penetrate, illuminating the spindled branches and whispering leaves. But here the pine needles lay orange in the yellow light. Aredhel cradled Maeglin's head, ran her hand over his face, feeling his soft skin. His lashes batted against her fingers. She smiled.

'I've got you,' she said.


	27. Blue: On the Helcaraxë

_Blue: On the Helcaraxë_

* * *

The snow lies blue beneath the stars and rises in dark flurries that curve upwards and then back in on themselves. Through the night the wind rages, and there is no rest from the darkness. The trees are gone, and light has forsaken the land.

The ice moves beneath their feet, cracking and aching. Its cries slip through their skin. Its moans embed in their muscles. Their heartbeats have been replaced by the march of their feet, and their breath has been lost to the wind's howling.

Death follows them from the Undying Lands, swift and steady. It takes first their horses, and then it comes for them. They watch their children die, their sisters, their fathers. They watch snow bury loved faces that they kiss good-bye as they move on towards uncertainty.

Hope does not survive beneath the trembling heavens, but still they move on, escaping darkness by walking into it. There is no promise that they hold to apart from the promise that they might once more walk on land and not the water turned cold they must cross, which swallows them whole when it yawns.

They dream of rest, and of bits of warmth that they take from one another, pressing tight so that they might wake from sleep once more. Breath is shallow and kisses fast, hearts stop in the arms of lovers as they walk the grinding ice.


	28. Leaving: On Elwing

_Leaving: On Elwing_

* * *

She flies pink in the sunset, arms outstretched, becoming a bird again on the wings she has bound for herself, the wings with which she flies out from the tower where she sits day by day and watches the sea ripple. She can never again cross the sea, the sea she entrusted her body to when she first became a bird so many years ago, throwing herself from a cliff, half hoping she could fly. She took with her the Silmaril – the one thing she thought could save her, the one thing she could save.

In her many nightmares she falls, and the waves consume her with hungry tongues. She does not rise up, feathers pinned to flesh, hollow-boned, beating her wings through the air. She does not open a beak and cry out toothless; she opens her mouth and the sea rushes in – grey like her sons' eyes. She wakes from these dreams clutching for her mother and finds only sheets or her husband's hand.

These dreams she tells no one, and they fade away, becoming the part of her that no one knows. But she holds them always in her heart as she jumps from the tower, wings parted, and soars upward in the sunset towards the evening star, carried over the sea as light as a feather.


	29. Becoming Fluid: Ulmo

_Becoming Fluid: Ulmo_

* * *

Ulmo crashed onto the shore, exploding over the sand in white foam. He rolled back, swelling, dragging pebbles with him into the sea. Under the clouds he crashed, rising up and falling down upon himself while lightning shivered across the sky. Deep into the depths of the ocean he dove until he reached the dark bottoms were light had disappeared. In the silence of the water he waited, stretching himself out over miles until he reached the canyons of the earth where fire bubbled and burst. Then up again he rose, passing fish with lanterns, until the water broke blue.

* * *

_A/N: Because I love Ulmo. And I think he needs to have some fun._


	30. Crafting: Aulë and Fëanáro

_Crafting: Aulë and Fëanáro_

* * *

Aulë places his hands over Fëanáro's. Fëanáro has been cutting at a jewel. Shards from the jewel lie scattered over the table.

'What are you doing?' Aulë says.

Aulë's hands look too large next to Fëanáro's. Fëanáro's hands are quick and slender; Aulë can cover them both with one of his hands.

Fëanáro turns the jewel over. It glistens green between his fingers. 'I'm cutting it,' he says, 'so that it will shine.'

Aulë lifts Fëanáro's hand and pulls open his fingers. The jewel flutters with the light from the fire. It is more beautiful than any jewel he has seen. But the edges are sharp. They cut Fëanáro's finger as Aulë unfolds his hand.

'Be careful,' Aulë whispers.

Fëanáro's fingers close over the jewel once more.

He says, 'I am.'


	31. Phantom: Maglor in the Modern Day

_Phantom: Maglor in the Modern Day_

* * *

Maglor wanders the crooked coast, crying, calling, his voice lost in the wailing. He stumbles, falling, catches himself with burnt hands. He's burnt like Morgoth.

Through the ages, the coast is changing. Cliffs fall into the sea. He wanders land that he has walked before, and then there is a river that was not there. He stands on mountains where once lay a field. Islands appear; islands are washed away.

Forests vanish as he is walking. Men cut them with axes, men cut them with crosscut saws, men cut them with chainsaws that rip the silence as well as the trees. They build houses and cities and long highways where coaches without horses scream.

Maglor walks into one of their cities. He moves through the people. His shadow is lost beneath their feet. When he stands alone, he is pale, just a moment. Someone thinks he sees him, but then he does not. It is a passing moment. It is gone.

Later the sun has fallen. The evening star lies upon the horizon in the pale pink sky. Maglor stands on a street corner and watches a little boy eat ice cream from a cup. The boy sits on the curb, taps his foot as he hums. He has an older sister with golden hair cut just above her shoulders. She wears a dress printed with hot air balloons, a jacket. She spins around in a circle, hands out at her sides, sticky with the ice cream she has already devoured.

Their mother comes from a shop. She takes her children by their perfect hands, starts to lead them home. The girl stops, pointing at him. 'Katso, äiti!' she cries. He mother looks at him, but sees nothing. She pulls the girl on. 'Katso!' she says, still pointing. 'Haamu!'

Somehow, Maglor understands her, and he weeps.

* * *

_A/N: Translation: Look, mother! Look! A ghost!_


	32. Tumbling: Aegnor and Angrod

_Tumbling: Aegnor and Angrod_

* * *

'You're not going to win!' Aikanáro gasped, pushing up with his arms against Angaráto.

Angaráto grinned down at him, his hair a mess around his face.

Aikanáro was lying on his back in the grass. Angaráto was holding him by the wrists; he had thrown his body over his legs, pinning him down. Aikanáro pushed his arms up again, but could not lift them any higher. He dropped them back to his sides.

Angaráto laughed. 'Do you give up?'

'No!' Aikanáro strained to the left with all his might. He managed to twist over onto his stomach and started to push himself up by the arms. Angaráto rose up on his back until they both toppled to the side.

'Ha!' Aikanáro sprang at Angaráto, throwing himself over his brother's shoulders. He wrapped his legs around his neck and lay across his torso.

'Aueh!' Angaráto's cry was strangled. He spluttered as he gasped in for breath. He grabbed Aikanáro by the legs and forced them apart enough to duck his head under and out.

Quickly Aikanáro seized him by the arm and threw him down onto his stomach, lying straight on top of him. He pushed his weight down at the shoulders and knees.

'Stop!' Angaráto cried.

'So you surrender?'

'Never.' Angaráto shoved up against him. He managed to knock Aikanáro off balance and was soon on top of him again.

'Oh,' Aikanáro hissed, 'you shall not win.' He grabbed Angaráto by the hair.

'Ai!' Angaráto screamed. 'You brute! You villain!' He grabbed his brother's arm and bit it.

Aikanáro yelped and released Angaráto's hair. He jerked his arm away.

'Ow!' he said, rubbing his arm where little white and pink teeth marks remained.

'Serves you right,' said Angaráto. 'You started it.'

At that, Aikanáro jumped him again. They went tumbling round and round over each other down the slope of a hill finally coming to a halt when they hit the base of a tree.

Aikanáro smiled down at his brother. He was on top. 'Ha,' he said and kissed him.

Angaráto just smiled and flipped them over. He grinned down at Aikanáro. 'Idiot,' he said.


	33. Craven: Orodreth and Túrin

_Craven: Orodreth and Túrin_

* * *

Orodreth sits in hollow halls listening to the ever-present roll of the river. Voices echo through the city, becoming stretched and thin. If he whispers his voice will fade and be lost in the stone. If he speaks his voice will boom out and bounce back off the ceiling. Orodreth does not shout.

The city was not built for conversation. It was built for whispered counsel and shouted orders. It was built for defence. It is a place to hide lost in tunnels that stretch beneath the ground, curving backwards into the darkness.

Nargothrond, Túrin says, is a coward's home.


	34. Swift as the Deer: Saeros and Túrin

**Warning: Because of the closeness and nature of the violence this might be disturbing to some.**

* * *

_Swift as the Deer: Saeros and Túrin_

* * *

Fingernails dig into Saeros's skin; arms lift and throw him back down again. His head hits the ground, snaps up. Túrin's hands clutch him tight enough to leave bruises. His breath burns his neck. Saeros cries out, tries to twist away, but Túrin blocks him, and shoves his knee against his thigh, preventing him from rising. Túrin slams his head down again. Saeros's ears are ringing.

Túrin has wrestled him onto his stomach. His weight presses down on him, forcing the breath from his lungs. Túrin tears his shirt along the seam from hem to armpit. He throws Saeros's wounded arm up and rips the sleeve from wrist to shoulder. His fingernails scrape Saeros's back as he rips the shirt from one sleeve to the other. The neckline is strangling him, but then Túrin rips that too and throws the shirt aside.

Túrin shoves Saeros's face down into the dirt as he lifts his legs up. Saeros gasps, and his mouth fills with pine needles. He's choking on them as Túrin tears his pants down. They catch at his knees. Túrin rips them, and Saeros tumbles out of them dressed now only in his shoes.

These Túrin catches and yanks from his feet. They join the torn clothes, the sword, the broken shield. And then Túrin releases him.

'Run!' he cries. 'Run!'


	35. Creation: Sauron and Aulë

_Creation: Sauron and Aulë_

* * *

'Do you know what you have done?'

From the pit of his stomach Sauron starts to feel it. Little cramps crawl up through his muscles. His nerves are shaking. He wants to dissolve his body, destroy his nerves, but he is afraid that then his spirit would quail. He lets his body take it.

'Yes, I believe so.'

The world around him lies in pieces. He's ripped up patches of grass and turned them upside down so that the white roots lie facing upward. He's planted seeds for brambles with their thorns and sweet flowers.

'You have destroyed what Ilúvatar wrought. You have gone against your purpose.'

'I have created,' Sauron answers.

Aulë watches him, and there is a hurt in his eyes. But his hands do not shake. 'You have destroyed.'

'You created,' Sauron says, 'and Eru asked you to destroy. Why?'

'I thought myself mighty, but I could not make life.'

Sauron keeps his voice steady. 'And then life was given to your creation. Why?'

'I repented,' says Aulë, 'and was forgiven.'

'Only when you deemed your creation a failure would he exalt it. Why?'

Aulë turns, surveys the world. 'And you call this a success?'

Sauron holds up his head. 'I call it freedom.'

Aulë speaks with a strained voice. 'You are free among shadows,' he says.

'But I am free.'

'And do you care for shadows?'

Sauron holds up his hand beneath the stars, and it casts a long darkness upon the land. 'Shadows are strong,' he says. 'They stop light.'


	36. Free: On Idril

_Free: On Idril_

* * *

Idril spins barefoot on the stone, arms held down at her sides. She is contained. She is not the child of freedom even if for freedom she crossed the frozen sea. She had no choice then. She could not say, 'let me be,' as her mother lifted her from her bed and carried her out into darkness. She clasped her arms around her mother's neck and asked why the light had gone out. She was kissed in reply.

She has no freedom here. None of them do. A law cages them. Mountains trap them. A curse drives nails through their wrists and holds them to the ground their bodies fall to. Her father is going slowly insane as he wanders his mocking city, heart sick with longing, mind unravelling with loss.

She spins faster. Her aunt is dead, and her cousin watches her. When she crosses the room, she feels his gaze cutting through her clothing. She keeps her fists tight at her sides. Her father tells her it is nothing.

Maeglin asks her why it bothers her. He asks her why he bothers her. Maeglin has eyes you could get lost in. She sees in them a forest with branches that hold. She sees in them a void that he is trying to fill. He is grappling for love and losing. He does not understand, and she cannot save him. They are none of them free.

Idril spins barefoot on the stone. Slowly she lifts her arms. If she closes her eyes she can imagine she is floating.


	37. Frost: Tuor and Voronwë

_Frost: Tuor and Voronwë_

* * *

Voronwë's hair lies like a ribbon over his chest. His heartbeat is visible upon his neck. His fingers tremble as Tuor takes them. Tuor presses his hands against his chest where his heart also beats. 'We both lived,' he tells him.

Voronwë looks up at him, staring. Tuor sees fear in his eyes, rendered back to him. He sees years of torment, tossed and captured by the brimming waves. He sees the madness and the loneliness of the writhing brine. Voronwë lies in his arms, a slave freed from the Sea. And Tuor lies beside him, once a slave of Men, now also free. He wonders which is worse, or if is possible to weigh pain against pain and find one the harder. They are both alive. That should be enough.

He touches Voronwë's hair. It is soft against his fingers. 'You survived,' he says.

Voronwë looks away as tears start in his eyes. 'And only I, and maybe not much longer.'

Voronwë's eyes are starlit. They are glittering jewels. They are beautiful and kind and so gentle Tuor wants to scream. He turns Voronwë's face towards him. He wants to save him from his past. He wants to undo what has happened, even if then they would never meet. He touches his lashes, and draws his fingers back wet.

'You will live,' Tuor whispers.

Voronwë's chest is narrow. Tuor can feel his every rib; his every breath rocks his body. His clothes are worn thin. He has worn them for seven years. They smell like salt. He smells like salt. Tuor tastes the salt of the wasting Sea when he kisses his hand. Voronwë draws his hand away.

'They all died,' he says.

Tuor nods.

'We thought They would have mercy on us.'

Tuor nods again.

Voronwë looks up at the sky as the day shrinks away. They will walk on again in the night. Tuor does not ask him where or if the path lies straight. Snow falls.

* * *

_For my sister and Crackers. They know why._


	38. Obsession: Maedhros and Fingon

_Obsession: Maedhros and Fingon_

* * *

I fall. I am pieces. I gather myself together with a torn hand. Somewhere I hear shouting. It is coming from inside of me, calling my name over and over. I want to run from it, but I still have not found my legs. I convince myself that it is possible to escape my mind and close my eyes to the words, for I cannot close my ears.

Obsession is the definition of insanity. You repeat a thought again and again until you believe it to be true. He's not dead. He's not dead, I tell myself. And then he hasn't died. I gather him from the mire and paste him back together. He lies in my arms and fills my soul with blue eyes and black hair tied with gold.

There is no white fire, and his brother does not scream.

_He_ never screamed. Never. How could he when they split his skull open?

They did not split his skull open. I stroke his head every night, and it is whole. I tuck him beneath silk sheets and press his face with kisses. I do not find half his skull, a mace driven through his cheek. His brother does not push me away and tell me that I have murdered him.

No, he is alive, and I lift him from the green grass as I did when he was but a child. He holds onto me and laughs, because he is everything right in the world. He is good, and he is true, as loyal as a nightmare. He always comes back, always. Death cannot hold him. _I_ hold him. He drowns me with his kisses – soft lips, warm cheek. His lashes scratch my face as he sets them fluttering. He reaches for a hand that isn't there. He's torn me into pieces.

* * *

_For Duilin_


	39. Endings: Beren and Lúthien

_Endings: Beren and Lúthien_

* * *

Life stretches forth before his eyes like mist running over a field. He sees the end, the straining end where the mist breaks apart. Soon he will be drawn away from his fading body and fall back into death's arms. Death is hard, and he will not be reasoned with this time.

Lúthien is singing, but her voice is growing dim. She feels it too; it is slowly creeping over her. He sees it in her eyes as she lies awake; they are clouding over – a moonless winter sky troubled by clouds.

The Silmaril burns around her neck, casting shadows up from her chin. The light flutters across her face as she bends to wash her hands; it illuminates the water.

* * *

_For Painton. Requested ages ago, but not forgotten._


	40. Spring: Beleg and Túrin

_Spring: Beleg and Túrin_

* * *

Túrin is a flower, not a tree. He will spring up and then die. His words will become silences. In a few short years his smooth hands will become as crinkled and dented as the bark of the tree he touches.

'This is an Elm,' he says, looking over his shoulder at Beleg. 'Nellas taught me.'

He runs his finger up and down the scaly trunk. He has little nails, bitten short.

'Yes, an Elm.'

Túrin's eyes will dim. Pink lines and red blotches will grow around the edges. Beleg has seen men grow old. He has heard their rasping voices and touched their leathered faces.

'So young, so handsome!' he has heard these men say, touching a smooth face that was before their first ancestors awoke.

He laughed then, for it was a funny thing to think, and he was just learning.

'Look.' Túrin calls and holds up a handful of wood sorrel.

'Very good.'

Túrin munches on the sorrel with strong teeth. He has not yet lost all the baby ones. Beleg thinks of old men with their teeth chipped and yellowed, toothless smiles with pink gums.

Beleg takes Túrin by the shoulders and kneels in front of him. Túrin looks down at Beleg seriously, little green leaves peeking out from the corner of his mouth. Beleg pushes them back in with his thumb.

He never had a child. Looking at Túrin now, he thinks that he never will.

'Come,' he tells him. 'I shall teach you to track. A warrior you said you wanted to be?'

Túrin nods and says, 'yes,' mouth full.

'Then a warrior you shall be. And you shall be great.'

* * *

_For The Wayfaring Strangers_


	41. Alive: Finwë and Indis

_Alive: Finwë and Indis_

* * *

Indis is butterfly kisses, wings breaking open. Her hair is a flutter of dreams; her eyes are a mystery. She holds him captivated, breathless. She is strong, sweeping, a waterfall spilling. She laughs like raindrops when the world is still.

Indis runs swift, a blur against the world, bright and brilliant. Her feet touch the ground and fly up again.

Indis is hope, his world made beautiful. She holds his hand and shows him it is all right to breathe again. He kisses her fingers, and she pulls him toward her.

Together they live in the light of the Trees.


	42. Sweet Dreams: On a Balrog

_Sweet Dreams: On a Balrog_

* * *

It is wreathed in fire, its spirit made flesh. The burning it has felt since before it knew of flames has shaped it, has made it, has become its all.

It brings terror. It brings dread. It brings trembling silences where men fall to their knees and weep. It draws near to them, and their tears are burnt from their faces.

It marches blazing in battles. Smoke rises from its feet. The ground lies scorched behind it, and all around it hears screams. Conqueror, it runs. Ash is its child.

In years later, its master deserts it. He is taken away to where fire is gone. It hides away from those who'd destroy it, those who would quench its flames.

In the heart of the earth it lies, wrapping molten rocks about it like a blanket. Deep beneath mountains it burrows, and there it sleeps.


	43. Gold: On Bilbo

_Gold: On Bilbo_

* * *

Bilbo sits in the garden listening to the Elves sing. He's getting too old to sit on the ground, trousers dampened by the soil. But if he sits down here among the budding forsythia he's surrounded by flowers. He's surrounded by gold, sunlight falling through the petals. It's a beautiful gold, not hard and clanging, and it smells fresh and sweet.

Sometimes he misses the Shire and his own garden. Gandalf and Elrond, who always know better, tell him it is too dangerous to go back, so he stays. They drive him batty some days with their wisdom.

There are only two things he truly misses from the Shire, his little garden – with the window that opened straight over it so that he could sit out in nature in the comfort of his home – and his Frodo: beautiful, big-eyed, brilliant Frodo with a thousand questions, none of them sensible. None of the good ones ever are.

The garden he has here, almost perfectly replicated. Elrond gave him his own plot when he told him how he missed his. But he couldn't give him another Frodo. There is no such thing. Still, he tells himself, Frodo will come someday.

He takes a breath and closes his eyes. The sun warms the back of his head; it caresses his shoulders.


	44. Autumn: Legolas

_Autumn: Legolas_

* * *

He falls like a leaf from the tree. His hair shoots above his head like a rocket, forms a long strip that tears through the sky, but his body falls gently, legs bent. He flutters on the breeze.

The trees stand firm behind his fall. They reach with their many crooked arms and grab at the sky. Down into their depths they drag chunks of blue that flash between their grey branches and against the sudden red of autumn leaves.

He laughs as he lands, springs forward on his feet, touches the ground with his hands, and bounces back upwards.


	45. Phantom: Celebrían as a Child

_Phantom: Celebrían as a Child_

* * *

Celebrían is as pale as a ghost: silver hair and white skin. Her eyes are large, but almost translucent. Some would call them silver, but they are too pale for that; they stare up at her mother from beneath white lashes – lashes that almost disappear when she closes her eyes.

Celebrían is wispy, a frail girl with tiny bones, little hands and little feet. She looks like smoke when she runs, mist when she dances. She is dressed in white. It shimmers.

By the light of the moon she sits illuminated. Light bends around her, making her hazy. She drops backwards to lie on the dark clover and becomes a white film over the earth.

Galadriel watches her, afraid to look away for fear of finding her gone.


	46. Tea: Erestor

_Tea: Erestor_

* * *

Erestor sips tea by the fire. It is the coldest hour of the night, and dawn reaches pink above the mountains. The valley lies grey outside: grey trees sink into grey earth and grey grass covers all. There is a grey scent of grey flowers, and the air is still.

In the distance, someone is singing. It is the tale of Tuor, stretched out too thin down too many halls. Erestor takes another swallow of tea. It is raspberry; he picked the leaves himself the summer before when the air was hot and the sun burnt the leaves green. His hand flashed again and again in the light as he reached out and drew back. He would drop the green leaves into his basket, and they would curl up, green on the top, yes, but white-grey on the bottom. Now he drinks their infusion: it is weak and tastes mostly of honey.

Erestor lifts the faintly yellow liquid to his lips and wonders if the age is ending as the sun rises large and orange and colour breaks upon Rivendell.


	47. Brothers: Fingolfin, Finarfin, Fëanor

_Brothers: Fingolfin, Finarfin, and Fëanor_

* * *

Ñolofinwë cradles Arafinwë, his little brother with tentative blue eyes. Arafinwë curls towards him, presses his balled fist against Ñolofinwë's shoulder. Ñolofinwë lifts him a little higher, rests the baby's head against his cheek and breathes him in. His soft, wispy hair brushes against Ñolofinwë's cheek. Ñolofinwë kisses him. 'Oh, he's beautiful.'

Fëanáro stands watching them, one hand in Father's. Father is smiling. He looks so proud. Fëanáro stands closer to him; his eyes are locked on Ñolofinwë. There are tangles in his hair.

Father slips an arm around Fëanáro's waist, and, for just a moment, he stiffens. Then he leans in even closer and rests his head on Father's shoulder.

'Oh, he's lovely,' he says.


	48. Found: Túrin and Nienor

_Found: Túrin and Nienor_

* * *

Níniel rests in Turambar's arms while rain beats against the window. The shutters are closed leaving the room lit by a fire that brushes her skin orange. Her hair burns gold.

Through the still hours of evening they wait while Turambar plies her face with kisses almost too soft. His eyes are distant – the colour of far mountain peaks when the day is young. He calls her Níniel, even now when there is no need for tears.

He holds her hand to his lips and whispers, 'I missed you,' though they have not been parted as the year wastes on.


	49. Summer: Haleth

_Summer: Haleth_

* * *

Haleth lives through the cry of battle where blood and bones sink and seep into the soil. She stands firm with her people about her and calls orders that strip her throat.

She lives free, taking breaths that she has won with the swing of the sword and the steady march of feet northwards.

Sometimes when the rain falls in winter and swallows the world in sheets of bright ice she dreams of immortality. She wonders what it would be like to build a country that you will actually live in once the first draft of sooty huts is gone and cities stand strong beneath the blue sky. She knows she will not live to see the greatness of her people, nor their fall, if it is a fall that is coming.

All she sees of the future is a lie she has crafted to fight for. And yet she stands among people who will live young, live old, into the splotches of thought she calls the years ahead and remember her as a word tied to a vague memory.

So she stands and so she fights and dreams for those who come after. For herself she dreams of the coming summer when the sun will lie warm and snow will not fall in raking sweeps over the dead grasses.


	50. Family: Finwë, Míriel, Fëanáro

_Family: Finwë, Míriel, Fëanáro_

* * *

Finwë holds a child with grey eyes and hair so black it makes a dent in the shadows. His name is Fëanáro, for a fire burns ceaseless in his body. Finwë has felt it when he held his naked body to his chest; the child was warm, radiating heat outwards; it stretched down to his toes, up to his baby-soft head, and out the tips of his little fingers, already twitching.

Finwë holds a child with grey eyes in the grey shadows of Lórien. Míriel lies cold in front of him. Her hair is spilled on the grass around her. She looks like she could have fallen for a rest, breathless from dancing, but breath does not stir the breasts that Fëanáro reaches for, mouth open. Finwë asks a friend with a child to nurse Fëanáro for him, but Fëanáro refuses. He turns away, whimpering. He will only take milk that he sucks drop by drop from Finwë's fingers. Afterwards he will lie, curled towards his father, nuzzling up against him. Finwë watches as he falls asleep, becoming still. Sometimes he wakes him when he bends down to see if he is really, truly alive.

Finwë holds a child with grey eyes who clings to him, arms tight about his neck, while the Valar watch them with pitying eyes and circle the family, murmuring. Their pity seems cruel as they smile soft smiles meant to comfort. 'Come back, come back,' Finwë begs his wife while Fëanáro twists, tired, in his arms, and Elves sing of joy in the distance. She does not answer, does not stir, and Fëanáro breaks into a wail when Finwë lies down beside Míriel and places Fëanáro between their bodies.

Finwë holds a child with grey eyes as Míriel's body withers. He watches it because it does not seem real, and he needs to know that it has happened. It still does not seem real once she is gone, but the grass where she lay is now white and smells sickly, so he knows it must have happened. Fëanáro touches the spot of grass, searching for her soft hair or cold, stiff fingers. They are all he has ever had for a mother.

Finwë holds a child with grey eyes as his soul fades. He feels as if birds are trapped inside his body, and are trying to peck their way out, wings fluttering. He wants them gone, but no matter how many times he wretches, no matter how many tears he cries, they remain inside of him, fighting. Fëanáro sits on the cool stone beside him as Finwë writhes in pain, cursing life, cursing death, cursing her. He strokes his hair and promises to stay beside him, always and forever. He has her voice. Finwë makes him say I love you a thousand times. Fëanáro never falters.

Finwë holds a child with grey eyes who smiles at him a glowing smile until mirth breaks from the sweet lips as laughter. He calls this child Findis.

* * *

_Author's Note: Wow. Chapter fifty. I feel like this calls for a celebration of some sort. Thanks to everyone who has been sticking with this story and offering me such kind, encouraging words. I truly appreciate it. _

_Also, I don't write about the House of Finwë too much, do I?_


	51. Caged: Húrin and Huor in Gondolin

_Caged: Húrin and Huor in Gondolin_

* * *

The air in Gondolin is bright and clean. It smells of cool streams, apples, and pine. Húrin walks through the city with his back straight, watching fountains lift sparkling water into the air.

Huor walks beside him on the flagstones, shoulders square, but eyes round.

'I would never have dreamed of a such place,' he whispers, and his voice speaks of timber houses and lumber gates where chickens scratch in the dooryard.

'Mmm,' Húrin answers, because there are no words for a tower of white stone set in a white palace that lies with its white walls upon green hills.

The city is beautiful – a replica of Tirion, which no mortal may see. He hears that Turgon built it for homesickness plagued his heart, and now its splendour rivals the memories of the land that lies unreachable beyond the Sea.

But mountains cage it, and cages make Húrin fear.


	52. Feast: Ungoliant

_Feast: Ungoliant_

* * *

She lurks in darkness, gluttonous, gloating. Light glimmers bright before she grabs it and drags it into her gut. She presses beauty into the aching pit she calls a body – crafted for crawling when she needed to scuttle, created for climbing, where she clings and waits.

She swallows life, sucking endlessly. Hunger consumes her, and she heeds its call. She thinks of herself and her bloated belly dragging beneath her on the ground. Melkor quails. She devours the jewels. Now he holds the Silmarils; they are enticing, succulent. She will take them for her next meal.

He promised her anything.


	53. Ice Storm: Beleg and Túrin

_Ice Storm: Beleg and Túrin_

* * *

Beleg held Túrin fast. Outside rain was falling, turning to ice on the trees. Each blade of grass would be encrusted in the morning and gleam jewel-like in the promised sun. It was achingly cold. They were far afield; Menegroth lay a two weeks journey from them. It was the farthest he had ever taken Túrin, and now winter had found them even in the midst of orange leaves blazing.

Túrin laced his cold fingers with Beleg's. His black hair was tangled into what Beleg called birds' nests. The rain fell faster, on an angle with the wind. It lashed between the branches of their hideout – a quick structure not meant to last.

'What do we now?' Túrin whispered.

'We wait,' Beleg answered as the wind drove on.


	54. Twinkle Twinkle: Varda

_Twinkle Twinkle: Varda_

* * *

Varda lights orbs in the depths of space like paper lanterns on a summer's night. She sets them floating far off until the distance makes them blend together, and they move in milky puddles across the sky.

Each star she crafts between the fingers of her mind and lifts, with a mother's care, into its place where it burns, radiant, through time.

It is funny, she thinks, how something so powerful is said to twinkle, to glitter, to sparkle in the sky. But her stars dance and flare, shooting out little arms of great energy, and she does not mind.


	55. Beating: Turgon on Fingolfin's Death

_Beating: Turgon on Fingolfin's Death_

* * *

The path is steep. Turgon follows it up past where plants stop growing. Where there are only rocks, and the feathers the eagles lost. They tremble in the strong wind.

Turgon stops.

Before his feet lies the corpse of his father. The body is open; he sees the white ribs. They are criss-crossed and broken. And there in the chest lies the unpunctured, unbeating heart. He bends to take it. Red bleeds through his fingers as he holds it up. It glows in the light of the setting sun, and for a moment, in his trembling hand, it moves again.


	56. Carve: Nerdanel

_Carve: Nerdanel_

* * *

Nerdanel's hair is in a bun, coming loose. It's clinging to her sticky neck. The air is hot. The smell of stone surrounds her. It's a dusty smell, if smells can be dusty. It tickles her nose as she lifts her chisel. She's carving Manwë's face.

When she was a child she would watch her father at work while stacking stones one on the other. Her mother was a musician, but she was drawn to crafting. She wanted her work to be visible, to exist longer than the fading notes her mother made. Her father first taught her to carve faces from soap, and she would sit beside him and make dolls from soap, then from wood.

When she first struck stone to carve it, she was surprised by how hard it was. Watching stone being carved, she had found that it looked almost like it melted. But the chisel jarred in her hand, and she made a long scratch down the block.

Her father told her that all work started that. He touched her shoulder and promised that all things got easier. Back then, she believed him.


	57. Pity: Labadel on Túrin

_Pity: Labadel on Túrin_

* * *

Labadel sits turning a stick into a fox. It's a plaything for Túrin, if the boy ever plays. The boy sits and watches him, asking him questions. He has a grave face like his mother, but a gentler heart. Or maybe he just has not learned enough.

Labadel has learned many things. He wears the lessons in lines down his face. He wears the lessons in the scars on his hands. He wears the lessons for all to see and scorn as he limps along.

But Túrin does not scorn him. He talks to him. He takes the things he makes him. Sometimes he smiles.


	58. Linen: Fingolfin on the Helcaraxë

_Linen: Fingolfin on the Helcaraxë_

* * *

The wind is sharp and bitter. It falls over him like a sheet. When he was a child he would lie on the end of the bed when his parents made it. They would throw the billowing sheet over him and laugh as it covered him, and he would laugh too.

Fëanáro would stand by the door, watching, calling Mother 'Indith' in his soft, fast voice. Father would explain later when he'd asked too many times that Fëanáro had a different mother, but she had died, and they all missed her.

He missed her too, even if he had never met her. Even if he would never have lived if she had not died.

Fëanáro did not live with them. He liked to travel, Father would say. Fëanáro would come on visits with his bright eyes and calloused fingers. He would lean against Father as if he were trying to crawl inside of him. Sometimes he would break down and lie shuddering in the next room in the low light of Telperion.

Once Fëanáro sat on the edge of the bed with him. Mother was not there, but Father was, and he threw the sheet over both of them. It rose up, white linen caught silver and glowing, and then fell back down, curving about them. It was wrinkled and folded over their hair like crumbling crowns. Fëanáro looked at him, and his eyes were quicksilver.

Now Fëanáro is gone, and Ñolofinwë walks on as the wind curves about him. Snow crowns his hair.


	59. Starlit: Thingol and Melian

_Starlit: Thingol and Melian_

* * *

Thingol built a city for starlight. It was made for the constancy of darkness punctured by a galaxy too far away to dream of touching, which he stood beneath while trees grew fast around him and he fell in love with the dark eyes and the hands that held him, the hair which brushed black against their ankles as they stood among the black blades of grass pointing upwards towards the black trees.

Together they built this city with its carved pillars and high lamps. It was made for a refuge from creeping shadows, which tried to steal those who remained – those who had not been stolen before by the promise of light.

He did not need light. He had seen enough light in her eyes. They were dark, but starlit. You could lose yourself in them and never find your way out, no matter how hard you tried.

Sometimes he had tried to drag himself away – when he had felt the saplings reach above his shoulders, when snow had come, falling wild, when the pines stirred in the wind, towering, and lightning tore across the sky.

But she had kept him, and her eyes had drawn him, and together they had been safe.

'I will love you always,' she had promised with her silence, and he had needed nothing else.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry for the lack of updates/responses. I've had a terrible, frustrating, unbelievable week (which involved falling down a staircase). Sorry again._


	60. Childhood: On Frodo

_Childhood: On Frodo_

* * *

He skims across the grass, bounces, like a stone skipped over flat water. Green and yellow bruise his knees. Up again he leaps, ankle pushed too far to the left. His legs drop again, but he shoves up with scabbed palms.

No one will call him home, voice carrying over stripped gardens, grazing the frosted mounds of dirt. He lives in a busy place, stuffed with smoke and scolding hands that only account for his muddied clothes.

He runs on.

The sky is sinking down in the middle, only held up by the stabbing pines. They are puncturing the clouds.


	61. Breathing: Gandalf and Saruman

_Breathing: Gandalf and Saruman_

* * *

Gandalf's breath catches him unawares. It is a quick one. He forgets to breathe in his body, and then his mind starts to reel. Stars spark in his vision.

He takes another one, gasps in dust and the smell of wood.

Saruman smiles at him. His hair rests in a clean black line down his back. 'You'll get used to it,' he says. He places a hand on his shoulder.

Gandalf's nerves tingle, but his breath steadies. He takes in lungfuls of forest air.


	62. Maps: On Bilbo

_Maps: On Bilbo_

* * *

Bilbo lies on his stomach, drawing maps on his bedroom floor.

His mother will find him when the sun is setting, making the white curtains yellow. She will be wiping her wet hands on her white apron – it will be greying at the edges, smudged down the front with flour and berry stains.

She will gasp and then scold him, pulling him up by his curly hair. 'Bilbo!' she will say. 'What have I told you? What have I told you?' She will shake her finger and draw him out, bring him buckets and a rag.

He will scrub until his fingers pucker like her mouth, but he will never get the ink out.


	63. Seeking: Gollum

_Seeking: Gollum_

* * *

Gollum crouches in hidden caves – the ones that drip with stale water that leaves crusting crystals down the sides.

He takes eyeless fish from the warm water that's grown salty from its years of sitting.

He finds the creatures, lost and creeping, that wandered in from beneath the sun.

Pressed into the cracks of the walls, he sits and sings wilting songs.

The dark lies across him like a blanket, and he holds himself in his shrinking arms, remembering grass warmed by sunlight, and flowers that broke through spring's soft soil.

Beneath the mountains he waits and shivers, and it waits with him, watching all.


	64. Moving: Gimli and Legolas

_Moving: Gimli and Legolas_

* * *

Legolas's eyes are almost glowing in the twilight. He lies on his side, hair tumbling around his face.

'Tell me a secret,' he whispers, 'something you've never told anyone else.'

Gimli sits, pokes the fire, watching sparks pop up against the silhouettes of the trees. 'I don't know.'

Legolas stares up at him. 'What don't you know? You don't know a secret or you don't want to tell me?'

Gimli shrugs, leans back against the tree. The leaves are dotted with stars. 'What do you want to know?'

'What did you want most when you were a child?'

Gimli thinks of iron pots and skittish horses needing shoes. He thinks of witling magic toys while his mother talked of stolen kingdoms and dragons flaming across the sky. He thinks of being woken in the early morn to be bundled into a cart that rattled its way past farmhouses with stone fences and stacks of firewood.

He looks at Legolas. His brown cardigan is unbuttoned on the top, and he twists his hair around his fingers, looping it like a ring.

'A home,' he says.

Somewhere, an owl screams.


	65. Ask: Elrond and Celebrían

_Ask: Elrond and Celebrían_

* * *

'There are certain things you ought to know about me.' Elrond stands with his back to the window. The light halos around him, making his black hair appear golden. 'I am not a good person.'

Celebrían sits, feeling the pulse in her neck. The lace in her dress scratches against her side. His bed is red, a deep red like pooled blood, stretched out and threaded with gold against the white pillows.

She thought it would be blue.

'It's all right,' she says. 'You don't have to tell me.'

And he nods, and he swallows, and the sun drops behind the mountain, making his hair glow red. 'Very well,' he says and closes his lips on words that she now knows he wanted to say.


	66. Trapped: On Melkor

_Trapped: On Melkor_

* * *

He dreams of adultered states – wild worlds with winding winds. He wants darkness and despair that opens caverns in rocks and drags down the unplanted foundations of cities.

He is angry. It breathes through his soul.

He is chained to a will that is not his, and it drags him about, ordering.

He wants to break it, like he will break continents and flatten mountains. He wants to squash his creator beneath his mind until he knows how it feels to stand in a box as it is breaking your head, and you cannot stop growing.

You cannot stop growing, no matter how you try.


	67. Nightmares Eternal: Boromir and Denethor

_Nightmares Eternal: Boromir and Denethor_

* * *

In the night Boromir travels back to Gondor. He stands once more in his room, but it has pitched backwards, and he is lying on his back against one of the walls.

The opposite wall is above him, a ceiling. He can see the next room spinning through the door far above his head.

He hears footsteps, and soon sees his father walking towards him. He sticks out horizontally from the floor as he descends.

'Boromir,' he says, and his voice fills the room and Boromir's mind. 'You have not done as I would have wanted.'

And Boromir holds out empty hands. 'I have given all that is mine to give,' he whispers, and his voice is sucked backwards through the window below him. It disappears into the night, swept away to Mordor.

His father slowly shakes his head. 'All is yours,' he says.


	68. True Love: Celeborn and Galadriel

_True Love: Celeborn and Galadriel_

* * *

I have drawn maps from memory, and marked regions of the world. I have drawn boats that I crafted, and I have sailed in them down rivers that I named.

Green leaves surround me; they are caught again in the clear waters. I have no need for silver or golden blossoms that do not fade.

'You do not understand,' she tells me, as the snow falls onto her tear-stained face. 'I cannot live like this.'

And I do not blame her, for the world is filled with many cruel things, and some winters last forever.

So she makes a refuge, and I see no snowfall, and the years pass timeless, as we all grow old.


	69. Answers: Celebrimbor and Curufin

_Answers: Celebrimbor and Curufin_

* * *

'Do not ask me to answer for myself. I have made too many promises.'

Celebrimbor nods and looks anywhere but his father's hands. But still he knows they are clutching.

'I am sorry,' he says. 'Truly I am.'

And again Celebrimbor nods, and he can see the hands in his mind, although he keeps his eyes fixed on his father's face and his melting eyes.

'You have to believe me,' Curufin says. 'You have to.'

And he nods one more because he can find no words that will make it up through his throat without screaming.

'I see,' says Curufin, 'that I have done everything wrong.'

And Celebrimbor nods because he cannot disagree, and still he cannot speak, and his father's eyes demand an answer.

'Then forgive me.'

And Celebrimbor cannot move his neck, and a word is surging, and breaking out, and he cannot hear it, but Curufin nods and leaves.


	70. Battle: Maglor, Maedhros, Elrond

_Battle: Maglor, Maedhros, Elrond_

* * *

Maglor's hair is wet with blood. But his wrist is the only thing aching. He's done well this battle, if surviving is the aim. But it isn't.

The aim has fled into the sea. The aim has fallen from a cliff. The aim has jumped, and he cannot follow. And the sea is bearing it away.

'Is she dead? Is she dead?' Maedhros is calling. His arm is hacked below the shoulder. He is limping as he walks.

'I cannot say.'

It is gone. He cannot see its blinding brilliance.

'Damn it. Damn it.' Maedhros is saying. He holds a child by the waist. It dangles upside down from his arm.

Maedhros stops at the edge of the cliff, and the child shrieks above the waves.


	71. Waiting: Ñolofinwë

_Waiting: Ñolofinwë_

* * *

Ñolofinwë sits by his father's door. He was told to come then. He wanted to see him.

He sits with his legs stretched in front of him, ankles crossed. One of his boots is coming unlaced, but he does not lace it.

The floor is cold, and the wall is hard. He feels it against his spine. The blood in his legs is being cut off. One of his feet is sleeping.

The closest window is at a tight angle, so he cannot see out it. Dust is slowly falling in front of it; it spirals down, golden.

He leans back and looks at the carved ceiling. He thinks of things he cannot make. Crafts are shaped by his mind, but not his hands.

These lie still on his lap as the golden dust turns silver.


	72. Brothers: Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë

_Brothers: Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë_

* * *

I scream with my lips closed when Ñolofinwë touches me. It's a hand on my shoulder – a gentle thing.

He looks at me, searching a way into me.

'I do not mean you harm,' he says.

And I touch his hand because Father is watching, and he does not know what I do.

'Are you well, brother?' I ask because words can be meaningless.

'I am well.'

And he takes my hand, and I let him part my fingers and press his in between. I let his fingers curl against my hand, rest on the back. I let our palms meet.


	73. Moonrise: Gilraen, Aragorn, Elrond

_Moonrise: Gilraen, Aragorn, Elrond_

* * *

Gilraen paces before the fire, patting the back of her crying son. The night gathers behind the windows, replacing the grey sky with a dark one that will shine illuminated when the moon rises.

Estel does not stop crying. He awoke from his sleep with a wail, which he has not grown tired of.

Gilraen paces across the floorboards; her feet welcome the parts covered by a rug.

And then Elrond comes because he heard the crying, and he sings a lullaby as enchanted as his silver eyes, and Estel sleeps as light falls through the window, falling far from the illuminated sky.


	74. Wounded: Fingolfin and Finarfin

_Wounded: Fingolfin and Finarfin after Fëanor threatens Fingolfin's life_

* * *

By the time Ñolofinwë reaches Arafinwë, he is shaking. He can feel energy shooting from his fingers. His heart is screaming, pulsing again and again in his neck.

His neck.

He can still feel the cold metal. The sharpness of Fëanáro's eyes.

He had wished, for a moment, that Fëanáro would plunge it through. He wanted blood and the respite of death.

But then he had seen the flicker of Fëanáro's mouth. He had felt the way the sword was shaking.

It was shaking then like he is now, angry and uncertain.

'What? What is it?' Arafinwë says when he sees him, and Ñolofinwë sinks beside him, eyes shut, breathing through gritted teeth.

He says, 'he always has to make a spectacle, doesn't he? Something always has to go wrong.'

And Arafinwë shakes his head and takes his hands and tell him he doesn't know what he is talking about. He touches Ñolofinwë's hair and asks him if he is all right, because he can't see the gaping wound in his neck where Fëanáro ran his sword through.

But that doesn't mean it isn't there.


	75. Promises: On Elrond

_Promises: On Elrond_

* * *

His life is made of promises unravelling like his mind. He says thank you when each one is made, knowing it will be broken, and he will say you are forgiven each time a new apology is placed before him.

He has forgiven a thousand people a million times.

Sometimes he wonders what it would be like if someone promised to stop making promises. He wonders if that promise would last, and if he could be glad of it.

But no one has ever promised him that. They have only promised peace and happiness, loyalty, care, and love.

And he says thank you to that and then closes his eyes until the sorry breaks his eardrums.


	76. Vast: On Voronwë

_Vast: On Voronwë_

* * *

Voronwë dreams of emptiness – the flat, grey nothing of the sea. It has replaced trees and floating butterflies, flowers and the gentle laugh of a stream.

The sea roars of openness. It is an openness that closes about you.

Sometimes the sea seems white, and the sky seems white, and then it seems like you are standing on a ship that churns through an empty mind.

He wonders if the sea was an afterthought – something thrown in to fill up empty space in the world.

Something put in just to laugh at the lost innocent.

When he wakes he still feels it around him. He thinks the waves are crushing him, pushing him in. He supposes that the nothing can never truly be gone. He will never escape the stillness.


	77. Lace: Faramir on Boromir

_Lace: Faramir on Boromir_

* * *

Sometimes Faramir catches a glance of his far-away reflection and whispers Boromir's name.

He can hear Boromir's voice when he speaks, but it has now become softer, gentler. Sometimes he shouts, and it sounds like he really is there. Sometimes he calls his own name.

When the days grow short and frost finds the ground, he walks out at night to the river. He sits in silence beside the bank and watches the first bits of ice crawl up lace-like across the mud.

He does not know why this makes him think of Boromir, but it does, and so he stays.


	78. On Drink: Gandalf and Glorfindel

_On Drink: Gandalf and Glorfindel_

* * *

'Can you get drunk?' Glorfindel asks. He is sitting on his bed eating a sandwich.

Gandalf looks up from the book he is scouring through. 'What?'

'Can you get drunk?' Glorfindel takes another bite of the sandwich, regarding him with mild curiosity. He looks almost like a child.

'Yes.' Gandalf looks back down at his book, and pointedly runs his fingers under lines he barely sees.

'So you tried?'

Gandalf makes a non-committal grunt in his throat.

'How much does it take?'

Gandalf looks up from beneath his bushy eyebrows and closes the book with a thud. 'As much as it would take to drown you.'

* * *

A/N: So...that's caught up with.

Fun fact: Those poor souls of you I have just spammed (also known as subscribers) can see how long it took for me to write each piece based on the time stamp on your email when the chapter was published (as I was writing these and publishing them all at once, which means one took five minutes...)

Also, sorry for the delay. I would blame it on simply being busy, but the truth is more along the lines of I'm kind of like Elrond. I get depressed. Very depressed. And I was busy too.

Okay, I think that's all. Oh, one more fun fact! I have this headcanon about Glorfindel and Gandalf being best friends, so that's kind of where this cha[ter came from.


	79. On Poetry: Sam

_On Poetry: Sam_

* * *

There were words written, beautiful words. They filled the pages with elegance, with structure. Most were smooth, black and clean. Some were smudged; ink ran errant up through the weave of the paper, marking fibres that crossed each other where it wanted to be, not where it had been told to go.

He placed a finger over the words, but he did not dare touch them. It seemed that the ink, so strong and fast, would still be wet to stain his fingers and give him away as the thief of language, the one who was daring to go where he did not belong.


	80. Water: On Frodo

_Water: On Frodo_

* * *

Frodo filled his lungs with air. He held his breath until his eyes burnt. Every night he lay, imagining.

He wondered about the sinking boat, the water coming with circular strength, drawing downwards, bubbles rising.

He wondered if the oars had floated, bouncing down the living river. He wondered if the boat had capsized, turning over, over and over.

No one told him about such things. They spoke in whispers and touched his shoulders. They laughed about it in pubs after, swallowing mouthfuls of liquid, not drowning.

And every night he closed his eyes on tears he dared not swallow.


	81. Crocheted Shadows: Thuringwethil

_Crocheted Shadows: Thuringwethil_

* * *

By the wind she lives, tearing up through darkening skies. She opens her wings to the fleeting air and screams a blood-curse.

Her arms are spread, fingers stretched out, bone after bone, bound by membranes. Blood pulses through her wings, little capillaries netted.

The crocheted shadows of her wings fills fields, while her wings fill with the moon.

She watches people, learning their pulse points – the warm bits of skin fragrant with perfume. She drives herself into their minds – a terror meant for stilled hearts and nightmares.

Blood is life, and she lives on it: sticky, salty, knotting too soon.


	82. Trapped: Idril and Turgon

_Trapped: Idril and Turgon_

* * *

Idril sits down near Turgon. His sword lies across his lap.

'The mountains are not tall enough,' Turgon says. He touches the hilt of the sword.

'They never could be,' Idril answers. She places her hand over his.

The world becomes darker as a cloud passes over the sun. Turgon watches it, making note of the future. Idril watches the mountains, seeking a way out.

Over the peaks of the mountains, eagles soar.


	83. I am a blind man: One of the Nine

_I am a blind man: One of the Nine_

* * *

I am a blind man, groping. I have only the memory of a heartbeat. My fingers are long, stretched out after those things I have been commanded to conquer. I have forgotten why. Reason lies at my feet like a worn carpet.

Fear lives around me; I bring it in gusts. Those I meet smell of it, sweat rising through their pores, turning cold on their necks where hairs stand. They speak, shuddering, and back away from me as if I would kill them, not knowing what a sweet respite death would be.

I am a blind man, seeking. I walk a shadowed road.


	84. Sleep: Túrin on the Death of Beleg

**Warning for violent imagery **

_Sleep: Túrin on the Death of Beleg_

* * *

Blood frames his lips, and I taste it as I kiss him. His eyes are open, and they flash with the lightning. A veil is forming over them, and I have nothing to clear it.

I pulled the sword from his neck, and the squelch of his skin ate through my skull and my ribs so that my brain and my heart fell out and died with him.

He lies in my arms, thinner than my memories. His hair is knotted, wet; it drips water against my arm. We are wet, and the rain falls.

Leaves form a bed, and I am his blanket.


	85. Breathe: On the Death of Curufin

**Warning for violent imagery**

_Breathe: On the Death of Curufin_

* * *

It is in the moment that the sword pierces him beneath his collar bone and slices a clean way through his lung that he remembers that he wants to live. But the sun is stretching pale yellow in the freckled sky, and it is growing hard to breathe.

He falls forward onto his knees. His palms scrape open on the stone floor. He sucks a breath in and feels his lung collapse.

He looks up into the face of a young soldier. The eyes are as wide as the horizon.

'Have you ever done this before?' he says.

The head shakes. The sword jerks in his body, making the cut sides of his wound scream.

He smiles as the blood starts to drip from his lips. 'It isn't easy.'

And the sword is pulled away and swings up against the flowering white clouds.


	86. The Chase: Huan and Celegorm

_The Chase: Huan and Celegorm_

* * *

Huan slides to a stop, claws digging into the clean earth. The world is spinning in windforms, leaves cluster bright. Tyelkormo comes to a stop behind him, out of breath, hair wild.

Huan catches his eye and then leaps forward again. A howl leaps out from him, ringing off the trees. His muscles are stretching and contracting, carrying him in bounds over the upturned hills.

And Tyelkormo follows behind him, scrambling on the slopes, head decked beneath branches, bright eyes and long legs, living for the horn's cry.


	87. Pensive: Túrin, Morwen, Húrin, Lalaith

_Pensive: Túrin, Morwen, Húrin, Lalaith_

* * *

The sky has grown darker than Túrin can remember. Clouds build over the blackness. His mother walks the floor, shutting up all the windows; she covers them with blankets and then bars the door.

His father sits with his harp, softly playing. His voice comes deep from beneath the wails of the wind. The house shakes; it creaks at the corners. His father lays the harp aside.

He says, 'it will take the house down.'

His mother watches the walls. She cradles his sister. 'It may still stand,' she says.

His father lifts Túrin from where he sits on the floor. He holds him tight in his strong arms. Túrin watches him, understanding his face and the slow way he sighs when the wind screams on.


	88. Alone: Makalaurë and Maitimo

_Alone: Makalaurë and Maitimo on the death of Amras_

* * *

Makalaurë sits down beside Maitimo. Maitimo is quite still; he has his hands on his knees. He is watching the ground, eyes lowered beneath curled up copper lashes.

'I meant to tell you that earlier,' Makalaurë says.

Maitimo nods as leaves skittle over the grass. His hands close on his knees.

Makalaurë watches the little twigs. They are knocking together. All around them, the grass is pushing up. He places his hand on Maitimo's head. His hair is warm from the sunlight. He draws his hand down, over Maitimo's neck, across his shoulder.

Maitimo picks at the grass, stains his fingernails green.

'I should have known,' he says.

He leans forward, wraps his arms around his thighs. His stub peeks out from beneath his knees.

'I should have known.'

Makalaurë presses his forehead against his brother's shoulder and the world swallows them whole.


	89. Worship: Sauron and Melkor

_Worship: Sauron and Melkor_

* * *

Morgoth will crush his face between his hands. Already Sauron can feel his cheekbones caving. His skin is pushing up; soon it will tear.

He calls Melkor Morgoth in the flustered pieces of his head. It seems to fit him. It is a name meant for something so beautiful that the Silmarils crowning it disappear.

He calls Melkor Morgoth in the small parts of the night that slip past almost unnoticed. It is a name meant for something so terrible it makes his breath stop and then start again in sequence.

He calls Melkor Morgoth in a thin whisper that scuttles over the stones like a dead leaf. It is a name meant for something so impossible to stop he's given up on trying.

'Morgoth,' he says again, and his face isn't crumbling. His arms are caressed by burnt hands.


	90. A Gift: On Arwen

_A Gift: On Arwen_

* * *

Arwen can feel death stir in her. It moves along the insides of her stomach and burrows its way into her ribs. It clutches her heart, slowing it, making it beat faster and faster, playing with it like a toy for its own amusement.

Arwen sits beneath a tree she thinks she may remember. They have all faded now, and golden flowers grow no more. But still the trunks are silver, beautifully silver. They are a memory and her childhood.

She remembers now days long gone when she mocked the Númenóreans for their fear. She said then she would face death bravely if it came to her. She said then it was their gift. It was their due.

And her father with a solemn face said 'perhaps' – a word she could barely hear. And he lifted a piece of seaglass he always had had as long as she could remember. And again he said, 'perhaps you would.'


	91. Gaping: Nienor

**Warning for suicide and incest **

_Gaping: Nienor_

* * *

Nienor runs. She is sorrow and tears. Nienor and Níniel – unhappy forever. She was born in sorrow and will die in sorrow. It is the only thing she was meant for.

So she runs. She runs because she has always run. She has escaped from misery into exile, and from exile into shame.

Her brother.

She felt him on her. In her. She felt his hands and his breath and the slowness of his joy. The care he gave her. His fingers slipping against her skin. She felt it all, and she took it all, and she loved him.

The ground is caving beneath her steps. It is like running in a nightmare, one where you cannot get away. She cannot get away. She never could. She will run forever.

Once you start running you cannot stop. There is not time to stop and turn around. There is not time to face it. What is it? It is everything.

Everything.

The world is gaping.

When she was young she walked in circles, trailing in circles across the floor. She could never get anywhere, and so she walked. Of course she walked. There was nothing else to do.

The air is making her sick. It smells of dragon, and the trees are all shifting places. She wants them to stop. It to stop. Everything should stop. But her feet move on; they carry her fast over ground that is not there.


	92. Mine: Finwë and Fëanáro

_Mine: Finwë and Fëanáro _

* * *

Finwë draws his fingers over Fëanáro's face. His skin is soft, but the bones beneath it are hard. They make perfect, angular shadows.

Fëanáro lies on his back with his eyes closed. Finwë kisses Fëanáro's eyes. The lashes tickle his lips, but it is Fëanáro who laughs. His laugh is gentle, inhibited.

Fëanáro's skin is warm. Finwë presses their foreheads together. A light breeze stirs the curtains; they move back and forth over the floor, white ghosts sweeping.


	93. Unfair: Ñolofinwë and Curufinwë

_Unfair: Ñolofinwë and Curufinwë_

* * *

Ñolofinwë lays a cautious hand on Curufinwë's back. He's found him sobbing in the courtyard, face down on the grass. His little body heaves up with each gasp of breath, and then sinks down again.

'Curvo, what is it, love?' Ñolofinwë asks. He rubs Curvo's back with his knuckles.

Curvo turns over; his skin is clear, even after all the crying. He looks like Fëanáro – sharp eyes, proud.

'My brothers are all tragedies,' he says, sitting up. 'And they have left me without reason.'

Ñolofinwë nods. 'Did they go riding?'

'Yes, and they have banned me from the pursuit on account of my height, which they, in all unfairness, claim will be a hindrance.'

Curvo brushes at the tear tracks on his cheeks and tidies his hair.

Ñolofinwë watches him, the way light falls on him. He looks like his older brother, but he is too tiny on the cobblestones, and his feet end too quickly. But there is still that lift of the chin, and the tight drawn mouth.

Ñolofinwë stands. 'I suppose they are right.'


	94. Lullaby: Tuor, Idril, Eärendil, and Voro

_Lullaby: Tuor, Idril, Eärendil, and Voronwë_

* * *

Tuor lies still as the moon seeks a way through the window. Eärendil is asleep in his arms, and Idril lies beside him, her bare arms encircling his waist. Voronwë is sitting on the windowsill, singing softly.

All around Tuor can hear the trickle of fountains. They shimmer in the moonlight, and sparkle down. A layer of fog is rising as the air cools. Faint clouds twirl like a scarf about the moon.


	95. Sleeping: Elrond on the death of Elros

_Sleeping: Elrond on the death of Elros_

* * *

Elrond lies beside Elros long after he's gone. He leaves the eyes open, and they glaze over. Elrond does not shut them. He wants to keep them open forever; he will pretend that he is simply asleep.

Elros's children come by again near dawn. He does not know them well, and they do not understand him – their strange uncle from a distant land. He looks too much like their father. He speaks too softly.

His brother's children close his eyes. One asks Elrond to come with her, but he shakes his head and says he'll stay. He pretends that they gave him that option. So they leave him.

The sea breaks outside, rushing again and again at the shore. He wonders if it ever grows tired of it.

He opens Elros's eyes again, but they seem strange now, so he closes them. He still pretends that Elros is sleeping. Elros might sleep with his eyes closed. Gil-galad says that he does.


	96. Cleaning: On Merry

_Cleaning: On Merry _

* * *

Merry's washing the dishes; he's got his arms up to his elbows in the sink. Bubbles float up from his scrub brush. He's humming.

It's a purple winter's evening – violet snow under a lavender sky. The mounds have settled since the morning's storm; they lie round now, comfortable. They were jagged earlier, like stones; the rows in the garden lay like corpses.

Merry picks up another plate, dips it into the water. Estella is in the other room, bustling about. She seems always to keep herself busy. And he…he works from morning to night, and he's never busy enough.


	97. Touch: Maeglin and Idril

_Touch: Maeglin and Idril_

* * *

She was the only one he wanted to hold, but she slipped from his fingers before he could touch her, and she fled from his eyes.

Now she is an image in his mind shielding her face with her arm, which is just as beautiful with its long, thrown up fingers. He wants to kiss each one, fingertips and knuckles, the two joints, the nail beds.

She flits with golden hair and hides behind fountains. Her eyes watch him darkly, and her brows draw. She keeps a straight back and never smiles. She is perfection wrought up and unreachable, like everything he's wanted has always been – sunlight, freedom, life.

And she carries life and cradles life and holds life up on her shoulders as she walks past the fountains sprinkling with sunlight. And he is golden, and she is golden, and they walk in golden light laughing while he stands in the shadows afraid again.

He slinks beneath the ground, crouching, bending, like he always has. Always and forever he walks with knees bent, head bent, eyes lowered. Because there is a never time that he is safe. And she is not safe, and they are not safe, and the world is going to blow up, golden.


	98. Mine: Boromir and Faramir

_Mine: Boromir and Faramir_

* * *

Faramir is choking Boromir the way he holds him, arms about his neck, legs dangling at his sides. His breath is in Boromir's ear, short, fast, there.

Boromir lifts him higher, straightens him. He holds his legs with his knees, and the little hands stop cutting into his throat. Together they walk as evening grows dark and clouds come in.

Sometimes, sometimes when the nurse isn't there, Faramir whispers, 'father,' when Boromir tucks him into bed. Sometimes, sometimes when the nurse isn't watching, Boromir whispers, 'I love you.' And sometimes, _sometimes_, Faramir closes his eyes to sleep without wetting them first.

Sometimes Boromir stands in the tower and watches the courtyard below and wonders when it will ever be empty. But it never is, so he stands beneath the judging sky. Sometimes Faramir stands beside him, and then he's grown, and he doesn't get tired of walking, and he doesn't hold his arms up, and no one – _no one_ – tucks him into bed.

Sometimes, sometimes while they are standing in the bitterest hours of night, the courtyard empties and Boromir stands, and Faramir stands, and the stones stay white.


	99. Growing: Maglor, Elrond and Elros

_Growing: Maglor, Elrond and Elros_

* * *

There are no answers. Maglor knows that now, so he holds children that are not his and pretends that they are everything he killed all those years ago.

They hold onto him because children are smart and want to survive. Maglor does not know why.

Elrond is the wise one – the one who watches with eyes that will never lose their wild look; it will just soften a little, darken around the edges, and then people will call it knowledge.

Elros is the angry one – the one who watches with eyes that will never lose their wild look; it will just harden a little, lighten around the edges, and then people will call it courage.

No one knows anything, Maglor says. They just make up lies because that is all there has ever been.

Maglor stifles his laughter because the children are sleeping.


	100. Knitting: Frodo and Sam

_Knitting: Frodo and Sam_

* * *

Frodo could take an eye out the way he knits. He is sitting by the fire with a needle held upright on his lap, knocking the other needle around it. An orange scarf spills off his chair and onto the floor. He keeps working.

Sam sits sharpening the garden trowel. He takes care of the rust. He sands and refinishes the handle.

Frodo curses as the ball of yarn unwinds itself, falls off his chair, rolls to the fire.

'Everything wants to burn, doesn't it?' he says as he fetches the ball, picks the dust and ash off it. He gives a smile he thinks is good-natured. Gives a little laugh.

'Not everything, no,' Sam says, and he draws the sandpaper up and down the handle even though that doesn't do anything. He's thinking too hard.

'You won't get it smooth that way,' Frodo says. He's stabbing the scarf again, jerking the yarn too tight. 'You've got to put in a bit of effort. Work that elbow grease.' He chuckles as the knitting needle slips in his hand, jolts up through the spot where his finger should be. 'Lucky miss,' he says. 'Real lucky.'

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_So…change of plans. Writing one story a day for the rest of the year is going to be impossible for me based on my schedule (plus managing 365 chapters for one story is scary!) so I'm going to switch to writing about two chapters per week so that I can work on other fanfic ideas (and stuff in the real world) too. Sorry if I disappointed anyone!_

_Also, Chapter 100! *cheers in lonely victory* _


	101. Dry: Maglor

_Dry: Maglor_

* * *

There is nothing but rain. It drenches my skin, and the shirt I am wearing becomes suddenly a skin of discomfort. It lies upon me, judging me, weighing my sins in the ever heavier dripping sleeves.

I am surrounded by moist. I am drowning in water vapour. My eyes sting with rainwater. I am lost in it. Lost again.

And then my brother is holding me. Arms around my waist. He's supposed to be the strong one, and I guess he lives up to it. He presses the water against my skin until it clogs my pores, and I can no longer breathe.

A mortal once asked me what I thought of the future. I did not answer him, for I tried to think as little as I could.

Now I am dry, and I am holding a baby. He screams. He will scream until his throat goes dry. Like I am dry. Like the blood is dry. Like my eyes are dry.

And the sky is dry with no chance of rain.


	102. Fade: Denethor and Boromir

_Fade: Denethor and Boromir_

* * *

He has settled. He's playing games with my fingers. They are champions. They are warriors. They die one by one, folding, crumpling against my palm. So many cut down. In their prime. Always in their prime. They leave behind their wives and children.

He has settled, his brother niched in his arm. He touches his brother's hair and whispers a lullaby. He had not thought of the left-behind no-good warriors. He had not thought of the champions of sitting watching their wives fold. Now he is the child left, but he has no glory. There is no honour in crumpling.


End file.
